Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone

by Andrews, Christopher

  “What could be ‘bigger’ than a bunch of super-powered freaks breaking out of jail?”

  The elevator doors opened, and McDermott stormed out ...

  ... and ran straight into a cluster of people, a team of Secret Service agents (who looked far too nervous for his taste) and the visitors they were surrounding. He swore to himself then and there that someone’s head was going to roll, preferably this presumptuous Captain Brunn.

  A middle-aged man stepped forward. “Thank you for seeing us, Mister Secretary. I’m Captain Brunn and this is Lieutenant Commander Pane—”

  “I don’t give a damn,” McDermott snapped. “What I want to know is what you’re doing here without—”

  “Mister Secretary,” Brunn cut him off right back, pissing off McDermott even more, “you’re familiar with the docket that circulated yesterday afternoon, highest security levels, codenamed ‘Arthian’?”

  McDermott rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, the one about the little green men from outer space. Am I to understand that this has something to do with that absurd fantasy?”

  Brunn glanced down at the woman with him. They exchanged the barest hint of a smile before stepping apart and looking to the core of their little party-crashers.

  The first thing to catch McDermott’s eye was the man in the Halloween costume. It only took him a second to recognize the masked paranormal vigilante, Vortex — the troublemaker whom some idiots considered a “superhero,” of all things. And as he absorbed that, the vigilante (who was notably not in handcuffs) also moved aside for someone else to take the forefront.

  A young man in yet another Halloween costume stepped forward. McDermott looked at his odd face ... and then it sank in.

  “Oh, my God,” McDermott whispered, his eyes wide.

  The young man with the strange face, a man currently rumored to be an extraterrestrial, halted before him. He opened his mouth to speak, but then, appearing uncertain, glanced back toward one of the others.

  “Come on,” urged another man in a crimson suit, with what McDermott would call a huge shit-eating grin on his face, “say it. You gotta say it.”

  The alleged alien nodded with a funny little head-wobble, turned back to the Secretary of Defense of the Unites States of America, and requested in a completely serious tone, “Take me to your leader.”

  COOPER

  “I’m not turning myself in,” Cooper said out loud. “I’m just fixin’ to make some more noise.” This was probably the tenth time he’d said so over the past hour. The frustrating thing was, he had no way of knowing if his words were being heard or not.

  It was a very weary Perry Cooper standing across the street and a few doors down from a PCA way station. He puffed away at his third straight cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the late-night darkness, even though smoking was a habit he’d kicked years ago. Somehow, in spite of all that he had lost since the incident at his apartment complex, that he had been driven back to smoking felt the most pathetic to him. And yet, as this cigarette burned down to the filter, he took out his stolen pack and lit up a fourth one.

  The PCA way station across the street, Cooper knew from personal experience, was one of the smaller places where they stashed Class One rogues temporarily, usually drugged to the gills and/or still trembling from psi-jammer shock. They only had three or four special cells, but that was more than any regular police holding pen could claim.

  Cooper’s day had been miserable. Starting with his early-morning, low-profile robbery of the bank, followed soon thereafter by his deliberately high-profile assault on the fast food restaurant, he had also robbed a gas station (where he had stolen the cigarettes and lighter), been chased by the regular police for two miles down a freeway before he rolled his shield off the edge of an overpass, made a huge scene at the local mall, destroyed an electrical transformer, and as a bonus, rolled over a public mailbox.

  All of that had been spread out over fourteen hours or so, and over and over during that time, his invisible liberator (yeah, that was a laugh) dropped by to demand he keep “making noise,” keep “pulling down fire.” No matter where Cooper was, the guy found him, again and again.

  As the day had ground into night, and Cooper’s energy faltered, the threats from his stalker grew into crazy, bizarre stuff like “strangle into the coldest dark” or “dark skinned living, putting a bucket in the mess” ... Cooper could barely follow his weird speech, but he recognized the menace behind the words, and it was making him paranoid: Even just an hour ago, as he huddled inside a storm drain to avoid a police helicopter buzzing overhead, he could’ve sworn he felt someone moving right up behind him, but by then his nerves were so shot ...

  He knew he couldn’t keep this up. He was too old, too depleted, and, in spite of his condemnable actions back at the apartment, not naturally given to violence. He knew he had to find a way out of this mess ... and then he’d gotten the idea.

  From his current vantage point, Cooper could see a shitload of smoke rising from a skyscraper a few miles away. Even as he watched, a wave of green light — light which splashed and flowed like water — sloshed out through a broken, smoky window; it ran out into the open air, tumbled a few floors like a waterfall before crashing back inside.

  Another rogue, Cooper thought, hitting another high-profile target. That’s gotta be the third one. I’m sure not the only fool forced to go out and ‘make noise’ today ...

  Cooper was on his eighth cigarette when he finally saw a PCA car pull into the way station.

  Showtime. Christ, I hope this works.

  With one more verbal assurance to his maybe-present invisible slaver, Cooper snapped on his shield and rolled across the street.

  The agents were opening the backseat of their car as Cooper, rolling at a good speed now, reached the parking lot; he could just barely make out the slumped figure of a woman, with a telltale psi-jammer locked onto her forehead.

  “Hey!”

  Startled, Cooper flicked his gaze to the station doorway; two more PCA agents had appeared, fumbling for their weapons.

  Good, this has gotta look good, gotta look great.

  The surprised agents by the car looked first to their comrades, then turned to face the oncoming threat. One already had his stun gun out; the other just hurried to get the hell out of the way ...

  ... which was easier than it should have been, because Cooper had been aiming for the front of their car all along. He smashed the hell of out the fender, then rolled right on over it, flattening the hood.

  “I know that one!” he heard one of them shout. “Manning! Get inside and grab the laser harness!”

  Steering his shield around for another pass, Cooper flinched when he heard this. Come on, damn it, come on!

  Two of the agents were using the back of the car for cover as they wielded their V9s toward the rogue bearing down on them. But where did the third agent go?

  “Gotcha!”

  A moment before Cooper collided with the rear fender, something yellow-green and very slimy splashed onto his shield, as if a giant had hocked the world’s biggest loogie on him. It didn’t get through, but it caused him to jerk to one side so that he only clipped the car’s back bumper. As he continued to roll, the green slime spread out, covering most of his shield and reducing his visibility to a whirling strobe.

  “Get him, Ooze!” someone shouted.

  Oh, great, groused Cooper. “Ooze”?

  Sure enough, as he slowed his rolling, the slime condensed near his left shoulder until he could see a partially formed, spinning face. When it spoke, it was all bubbly and gross, but the basic timbre matched the voice that said, “Gotcha!” a moment ago.

  “You’re not gettin’ away again, buddy!” gurgled Ooze, even as his face spun like a record. “I’m gonna burn through this bubble of yours any second now!”

  An empty threat. Cooper heard sizzling from the asphalt below his feet, but none of the green stuff was getting through his shield — he caught an inconsistent, faint wh
iff of something nasty and acrid, but that was about it. Cooper was just more Class One than this guy.

  No wonder I never heard about this one or saw him on TV. When an agent’s power makes him look like something Linda Blair threw up, that’s not a good public image.

  But he had to find a way to get this slime-agent off his shield if he wanted his plan to work. He had to—

  Wait! As he dropped off the curb and wheeled around sharply, Cooper realized just how much of a blessing in disguise this could be.

  Leaning forward and twisting at the waist as far as he could, Cooper’s shield began to rotate as it rolled. Once he saw (through quick flickers of Ooze-less shield) that he was near the car and the other agents again, he slowed his forward moment by straightening up, but kept his body twisted. His shield spun faster and faster, faster and faster. Cooper himself remained stationary, but the important thing was that, thanks to Ooze, those outside couldn’t really see that.

  “Watch out, guys!” Ooze gurgled in warning.

  A second later, with a slurp like excess soda being sucked from a plastic lid, the paranormal was flung from Cooper’s shield. Ooze splattered against the front of the building, scattering his fellow agents.

  Praying that it was all happening too fast to follow, Cooper dropped his shield. As his feet hit the ground, he toppled around as if too dizzy to control himself, then stumbled against the car, slamming the still-open back door closed on their prisoner, who had remained oblivious throughout.

  Sliding down onto his side, Cooper landed face to face with one of the agents who had arrived with the woman. He was just a kid in Cooper’s eyes, and his weapon trembled as he gaped slack-jawed at the rogue before him. Collapsing to his hands and knees, he hissed under his breath to the young agent, “Stun me.”

  The agent pointed his weapon right at him, but still looked more bewildered than convicted. “Wh-what ...?”

  Still talking through clenched teeth, Cooper snapped, “Stun me, you idiot! You’ll get a promotion!” It was all he could think to say.

  Fortunately, it was enough. Just as Ooze coalesced from the wall and the front doors flew open to reveal Agent Manning, wearing an elaborate gizmo strapped to his chest, the young man in front of Cooper finally grew enough balls to fire his V9 — not once, but twice.

  As the two stun charges struck his chest and sent God only knew how many volts coursing through his body, Cooper’s last thoughts were split between hoping that his heart could take this kind of punishment and relief that he wouldn’t be making any more noise tonight.

  PARANORMALS AND THE TAALU

  Vortex and Shining Star stood together at the edge of a mountain plateau, deep in the least populated area of Montana. It was dusk, and aside from the perimeter lights behind them, no other signs of civilization were visible. Takayasu and Shockwave, as well as Powerhouse and Pendler (who nearly fainted when Lincoln explained what they were doing here), were stationed at other points around the plateau, and their attention, one and all, was focused skyward.

  Steve could hardly believe it was really just yesterday that he’d been standing in the Oval Office. The President had greeted Shining Star openly enough. Steve had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud when the President stood from behind the Resolute desk wearing a cape! They must have pulled it from historical storage — it definitely had a George Washington feel to it. But, regardless of how funny it struck Steve, it showed that they had indeed been listening as he and Takayasu filled them in on the run. The cape did its job well; judging by Shining Star’s behavior, it met his expectations of how a leader should be adorned.

  But after the initial greeting — with the President spouting lofty yet predictable proclamations of friendship, and doing it smoothly, as if he met extra-terrestrial ambassadors every other day — the mood abruptly soured toward Steve. With almost no segue, the President began proclaiming, in no uncertain terms, how inappropriate it would be for the PCA to maintain control of these proceedings and, in particular, how impossible for a masked vigilante to participate. Saying all of this as though he were doing Shining Star a favor, making amends for a job poorly done until now, the President insisted that an official political ambassador should take charge, leading an experienced committee (How the hell, Steve had wondered, could they be “experienced” when no one on Earth had done this before?) to receive their new friends, the Taalu, to settle down here in the United States of America.

  By this point, Steve could practically feel the Secret Service agents closing in around him, ready to throw a bag over his head and drag him out of the room and into the nearest paranormal jail. The PCA officers didn’t look much happier about the way things were going, either.

  Shit! How do I get out of here if they try to nab me? I’m in the White House, for Christ’s sake! And what will Takayasu and the others do if ordered to take me down like a rogue?

  What could they do? This was the freakin’ President saying all this!

  But before it could all go straight to hell, Shining Star spoke up and stood his ground. Using his “Grand Lord Callin Lan of the Taalu” demeanor they’d seen only glimpses of (God, he could be so regal for someone so young!), he made it quite clear that without a continued relationship with PCA agents Takayasu, Shockwave, and Powerhouse — and especially if the “noble hero” Vortex were removed from the proceedings — there would be no American settlement. The Taalu would extend their hands toward more “cooperative” governments, or perhaps settle on our moon, or, if necessary, continue along on their interstellar journey.

  The President buckled; his back was to the wall, and he knew it. He glared at Vortex for a moment when Callin wasn’t looking, to make it very clear that he wasn’t happy about this arrangement, but while the President was reluctant, he wasn’t stupid. Although Shining Star had stipulated that his people would remain apolitical, avoiding favoritism and maintaining the right to open relations with other countries of Earth as they saw fit, the President knew that having the Taalu settlement here on American soil would give the United States a de facto advantage when the news was announced to the world at large.

  So ... with record-breaking swiftness that defied belief and put FEMA to shame, a reception settlement consisting of temporary barracks and other prefab buildings was assembled — in less than a day! — in this remote region of the Montana mountains. The President, working in conjunction with the state Governor (who Steve was pretty sure didn’t really know what would be taking place out here) and the Montana National Guard, established a perimeter of greater circumference than the area that the Taalu would actually be using, until more permanent accommodations were arranged (if they decided to stay on Earth, of course — Callin made sure to reiterate that more than once after the near-banning of Vortex and the PCA). In short, the President had promised Shining Star security as well as privacy until his people had time to stretch their legs, so to speak.

  Of course, Steve had little doubt they were under covert surveillance, probably via satellite, remote camera, and maybe even a Special Forces team (maybe those paranormal Marines he kept hearing rumors about) lurking out there in the dark, somewhere between the National Guard perimeter and where they stood waiting for Shining Star’s people. He considered switching to infrared to test his theory, but decided he was more interested in what would be coming from the sky above than the President’s likely (and understandable) snooping.

  A chilly breeze flowed past Steve, rippling his cape until he pulled it tighter around his body. For the first time in a while, he was grateful that his uniform could be a little stuffy; such was the price for resistence to fire and heat, but the micro-chainmail’s ability to maintain his body temperature was certainly a boon this evening. Now that the sun was below the horizon, it would be getting steadily colder up here.

  The reason the hurried settlement had been assembled in the Montana mountains went beyond the necessity for isolation. Callin’s people, half of whom had been born on Taal-ceky, the hidden planetoid
, were accustomed to a thinner atmosphere than Earth’s at sea-level. While Shining Star’s paranormal body could adjust to virtually any environment, his people would have considerably more difficulty — thus, the mountains. The barracks and prefabs were all heated to compensate for the chill, as the Taalu did not have any body hair (nor did the males grow beards) and were more sensitive to the cold. Thinner air at the cost of heat was a compromise, but one that Callin deemed equitable. The Taalu were also accustomed to slightly weaker gravity than ours and a touch more Nitrogen in the air, but there wasn’t much they could do about that.

  Another element of Taalu physiology that blew Steve’s mind, but one that was invaluable toward the expedience of the settlement’s construction: No waste disposal necessary. The Taalu had neither an anus nor a urinary tract (though the tight fit of Shining Star’s uniform, as Shockwave pointed out — literally — proved that the Taalu males did have penises). On top of evolving as herbivores, their digestive systems were almost one-hundred percent efficient, with the small amount of remaining (thankfully-odorless) waste secreted from their sweat glands. The downside to this superior digestion was that the Taalu were more susceptible to toxins from spoiled food — if they didn’t vomit it up, it went straight to their bloodstream, as diarrhea was simply not an element of their biology. As such, they would require the freshest native fruits and vegetables possible, with special care to eliminate—

  Steve’s thoughts were derailed in an instant as a streak of light dashed across the sky ... but he was tempted to smack himself on the forehead when he realized it was just a shooting star. Of course, to be fair, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, visually, when the ships arrived.

  “It will take me some time,” Callin said suddenly, his voice low in reverence as his gaze swept from where the sun had recently set to the stars above, “to get used to your night sky.”